


An American Hero Walks into A Bar

by givemeunicorns



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexual Steve Rogers, Gen, M/M, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Steve Roger's doesn't like bullies, Trans Female Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:13:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1775377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givemeunicorns/pseuds/givemeunicorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has changed a lot in 70 years, but a lot has stayed the same. Unfortunately, it's not always for the best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> based on a couple of posts I saw on tumblr about Steve not putting up with homophobia, misogyny or transphobia. Also I just really like fics about Steve making friends and being queer. So here is a bit of self serving fanfiction from yours truly. 
> 
> *NOTE* I am not a trans woman. I tried to run a lot of these things through friends of mine, making sure nothing I wrote was unintentionally offensive however I know I'm not perfect. If you see anything in the fic that is problematic or unintentionally transphobic please PLEASE let me know and I will correct it. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own capt. America or any related marvel characters and make no money from this.

It was a tiny little place, just a hole-in-the-wall kinda dive, but the moment Steve stepped across the threshold he could feel himself unwind. He'd been here before, a life time ago, but unlike so many places in the city, it hadn't changed all that much. The glow of the lights was still soft and warm, and the bar still shown like new, glasses were still lined up neatly along the wall behind it. The dance floor was along the opposite wall now, and the stage was smaller. There was still music, playing softly from speakers hidden out of site. Pictures adorned the walls, some familiar, some not. There were images he'd seen before, from the internet or books he'd read.The Stone Wall Riots, Billie Jean King's historic win, Harvey Milk's funeral march, the faces of people like Candy Darling, Quentin Crisp, Audrey Lorde. There were some though, that he was pleasantly surprised to find he does knew all on his own. Portraits of Gladys Bently, Marlene Dietrich, Frida Kahlo, Contee Cullen. There were no tables, just clusters of booths set into the walls, and a line of stools along the wall. The place was comfortably crowded, people spread about in clusters, talking amiably over drinks. There was an easiness in the air, unlike so many of the bars Steve had gotten up the courage to step into since he'd woken up. No pressure, no pretenses. Just the kind of place people came to have a drink and talk, to shoot pool, and dance, and hang out with people who knew what it was like. He was glad to know some things hadn't changed.

Ease crept into Steve's shoulders, and he sighed, smiling. He'd read some little blurb about the place in the local paper, recognized the address. He and Bucky had only gone there a few times. Bucky always insisted he wasn't into fella's, wasn't insinuating that Steve was either, though they both knew how Steve's gaze would linger a little too long on the shirtless workers on the docks, the way the blush would creep up on his cheeks when Bucky caught him looking, with that same guilty expression Steve took on when he looked to long a shapely legs of a passing girl. Bucky said it was easier to find them both dance partners in queer bars. The good time gals in their usual haunts were looking for the type to protect them, and while Steve had been a strong hearted and fiery little punk, he was also a barley a hundred pounds and asthmatic. Girls didn't usually line up to dance with a guy they might step on. Steve never danced, in all the time they'd come here, but he'd liked it all the same. The men and women and patrons in between had been nice to him, for the most part. They talked about things like art and poetry, things that didn't often get brought up in Steve's neighborhood. There were lot of fellas like him, little guys, skinny guys, guys who weren't muscle bound under their pressed white shirts. Of course, most of them had had eyes for Bucky, but they were polite enough about the rebuke. All Bucky would have to do was glance at Steve and the others would assume, pat him on the shoulder, and move on. Bucky didn't correct them and neither did Steve. For the first time in his life, Steve was able to talk to dames without stuttering, without feeling like a bug next to handsome, strapping, James Barnes. People here protected each other, kept their secrets. This had been a safe place.

And it still was, it seemed. Steve's eyes scanned the room; he'd always had an eye for the little things. People seemed happy here, at ease. Smiling, he grabbed a seat at the bar.

“What can I get you sweetheart,” the bartender asked him, her voice deep and warm, sweet, like the caramel his mom used to make.

He looked up at her from under the brim of his hat and smiled, when suddenly the breath leaves him, like a blow to the chest. She's all strong angles and red lips, with dark brown eyes he could fall into forever. Her dark curls are pinned back behind her ear with a flower and she's wearing a red dress that fits her slim body like a glove. For a moment, he forgot how to breath, because for moment, he could have sworn it was Peggy standing in front of him.

Then she laughed, eyes widening in surprise, as she quirked a perfectly shaped brow at him and the illusion shattered. Looking at her now, really looking at her, he could see it was only in her face that she resembled Peggy. She was probably as tall as Steve, with a sharp, angular body; broad through the shoulders and narrow through the waist, the curve of her breasts nearly non existent under her slim blue dress. Her arm was tattooed from wrist to elbow with beautiful watercolor flowers, and Steve marveled at how real the artwork looked, as if it were painted on paper instead of skin. There was a light dusting of freckles across her nose and there was a small gap between her front teeth that reminded him, endearingly, of Sam's and his good natured smile. Her hands, wide and heavy boned, were splayed across the bar where she leaned, each nail perfectly manicured to match her lipstick.

Steve recovered himself, realizing he was probably staring during his trip down memory lane.

He shook his head and smiled, genuinely, at her, blush creeping into his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he apologized, “you remind me of someone I used to know”

The woman leaned forward on her elbows, eye to eye with him now, staring at him in wonder, like she hadn't even heard a word he'd said. She had a pleasant sort of smile, that lit up her whole face.

“Sweet baby jesus,” she breathed, “it is you. You're Captain America.”

He shrugged, blush back in full force.

“These days, I just go by Steve. Lot less of a mouthful,” he joked, but the woman was still staring at him in grinning disbelief. She looked down the length of the bar, before leaning closer to him. Her hair smelled like apples and cinnamon.

“Uhh, no offense Cap, I saw you on the news and stuff, but you do know where you are right?” she asked him, and this time, her voice was cautious behind her smile.

He nodded, taking off his ball cap and tucking it in his pocket.

“I maybe creepin up on ninety but don't think my memory's gone just yet. This is Lola's, one of one of the oldest queer bars in Brooklyn. Used to bring in some real great bands too, back in the day.”

The bartender's expression shifted from cautious, to confused, to down right baffled in a matter of seconds. She straightened her spine, arms crossed as those dark eyes looked at him in disbelief.

Steve offered her an easy smile.

“Real nice article you guys had in the paper last week. I didn't know this place was still around.”

She looked around and there was a warm affection in her eyes.

“This old girl's been through a lot. She got shut down twice during the cold war, back when everybody was as afraid of communists as they were of queens. Couldn't seem to make it stick though, not until somebody torched her in '57. Then in '61, some fellas opened her up again, hoping to bring in the new beat crowd. She closed up again in '72, after the owner at the time went bankrupt. Some people tried to make a go of it in '81 but they didn't last more than a couple years. Then in '93 , my old boss Jimmy and his partner came along and decided to give the old girl another go. Ripped out everything and started from scratch, using the old pictures they found in the city library. She's not strictly a gay bar anymore but, with her history, we do attract people like us. Jimmy and Rick wanted this place to be a safe haven, ya know. I promised I'd keep the vibe, when I bought the place a couple years back, ” she said proudly.

Steve nodded, impressed.

“You sure know a lot about the place.”

She shrugged.

“This place saved my life,” she said, honestly, and their was a tugging in Steve's heart. So much had changed while he'd been asleep. Sometimes it was hard to remember how far they still needed to go.

She reached across the bar and Steve took her hand gratefully. Her long fingers were strong and calloused against in his own.

“Name's Gloria. What'll it be Cap? On the house.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“ I know I don't. But hey, I'm the owner, I'll do what I want. Beside's nothings better for business than a celebrity, so I'm told.”

Steve glanced down at the menu pushed she into his hands.

“I don't even know where to start,” he admitted. One thing that surprised him most, after the thaw, was how much eating had changed. There were so many more options now, ways to cook things, foods he'd never heard of before. Everything was so much more than meat and potatoes now,“What's you're suggestion?”

She leaned across the lacquered bar and Steve could see the china blue edges of a tattoo peeking out from the neckline of her dress. She tapped the menu with on of her perfect red nails.

“Well Cap, if you're looking to expand your horizons a little, I recommend the viking funeral. It's these awesome homemade fries our cook Jarin makes, with his phenomenal vegan chili on top. As for beers, we got a couple of local brews on tap. You like IPA's?”

He nodded, and she gave him a wink.

“Then I'll fix you right up, Cap,” she smiled, jotting the order on a piece of paper as she turned away.

Steve took a moment to glance around. People were looking his way now, and he nodded cordially. He knew it had been all over the news, his stern reaming of a homophobic reporter who tried to get his stance on gay marriage. The guy had kept pushing. “Back in your day...” “As a christian...” and all the while Pepper was pulling at his sleeve, keeping him grounded with that careful look she always used when reigning someone in. Then suddenly the words were tumbling out of his mouth. He turned on the sniveling little rat of a man with fire in his eyes, fists clenched and spine straight.

“In my day, black Americans couldn't use the same water fountain because some body else decided it was wrong. In my day, a black Americans got hung or beaten to death for over stepping what people told them was their place. In my day, Japanese American families got shoved into prison camps for no other reason than they were Japanese, while many of their sons went off to war. In my day, women were treated like an accessory, like property, not allowed to work most jobs, not allowed to play sports, not until their was no one else to do it. In my day, people like me went to prison, got their heads bashed in, if people knew about them. American Jews got rocks thrown in their windows and crosses burner in their yards. In my day, Hitler was killing millions of people, for their religion, for their sexuality, for their race, for their abilities. I didn't think it was right then. And sure as hell don't think it's right now.

The reporters froze.

“People like you?” one women ventured and Steve realized his slip. His gut clenched, and he thought for a moment, scrambled for an excuse, until another part of him squashed it. The world had changed, but it still needed changing. And Steve was never one to ask people to do what he couldn't do himself.

“Yeah,” he swallowed, “People like me.”

There had been an uproar after that. The next day Pepper had set him up with a reporter friend of hers, and understanding woman, gay herself, who'd been gentle in her questioning and who Pepper had trusted not to skew his story or exploit the facts.

“I'm bisexual,” Steve had told her earnestly, “I guess. There weren't really words for it... before We'll there were, but not ones I had the access to go searching for. I liked gals and I liked guys, but of course you never acted on the latter or they'd send you to jail if you got caught.”

The story had been met with an uproar from various camps. Some saying it was publicity, some saying he was trying to cover his ego by not fully coming out. Some of it said he was only trying to make waves. Then D.C. had happened and the world had bigger things to worry about then where Captain America liked to dip his wick.

Steve had gone searching for Bucky when Shield came apart at the seams. But two months of nothing, and no agency resources to pull from, Sam's job at the VA and the vets that relied on him calling him home, Steve had decided maybe it was time to go back to Brooklyn. He glanced around the place, smile fading a little. He felt like he'd been chasing ghosts since he'd come back, chasing the smiling, hard headed little punk who'd never let him go cold in the winter, who always made sure he had enough to eat, tried his best to keep Steve out of fights and was always there to patch him up anyway. A boy who'd brought him to this bar, given a thousand excuses as to why, when they both knew it was because they belonged here, with people who shared the same secrets. A boy who'd become a man that might not exist anymore.

The clink of ceramic on wood drew him back, as Gloria placed a heaping plate of fries and a tall glass in front of him.

“For the American Hero,” she smiled and he thanked her.

“Still can't believe it, the man himself, in my place,” she sighed, “you know, I wasn't sure if I could believe it when you came out. A queer superhero, an Avenger at that. You're gonna do a lot good for a lot of young kids out there, you know. Kids who think their lives are always gonna be hell because they're different.”

Steve shrugged.

“I never set out to be anybody's hero,” he said, earnestly, “I just don't like bullies.”

She laughed at him, smiled at him in that easy way that reminded him of Sam, of Peggy, of Nat...and of Bucky.

“I know you get this all the time, I'm sure, but was it like. Before...well this?” she asked, gesturing at his well filled form.

“I was a little guy. They turned me down, god ten times, from enlisting. Until Erskin took a chance on me. It was tough,” Steve said honestly, “But we did alright. It wasn't great but, some of us were living better than our parents had. There were times when it got too cold when you didn't have enough to keep your stomach full all day, but people took care of one another, when they could. After my mom passed, I had friends that opened their doors to me.”

Gloria nodded, and Steve felt a strange sort of easiness creep in. She didn't get that dreamy sigh, like the people who romanticized the past, nor did she carry that odd sort of pity that Steve so often found looking back at him when he talked about his old life. Gloria was the kind of person who just seemed born to listen, without judgement. A good skill in a bartender.

“You knew about this place, said you'd been here before. Did you have someone?”

Steve's hand clenched around his glass, the sudden urge to reach for a compass that wasn't there.

“Yeah, I had a girl once. Not from here though. I met her during the war, she was part of the team that trained me, before I took the serum.”

Gloria smiled knowingly.

“When you were still a little guy.”

“Yeah. When I was still a little guy. She was english. You remind me a lot of her.”

“I'll take that as a complement,” she teased, “Anybody else? Any boys?”

Steve shook his head.

“That would have got me put in jail,” he snorted.

Gloria gave him a wicked grin.

“Only if you got caught.”

Steve laughed and Gloria joined him and he felt more at ease than he had in weeks.

“What about you?” he asked, “this place seems to mean a lot to you. You said it saved you life.”

“It did,” she answered reaching down to take of her watch, she held her bare wrist into the light and he could see the circular scars that dotted the inside of her wrists, “I was in rough shape when I found this place. I had a lot of problems with myself, and I just kept getting involved with people who used those problems against me. Got into drugs, among other things. Back then I said it was to keep me alive, but looking back I'm not so sure I cared that much. Any way, one night, I got in a fight with a guy I was seeing. He hit me, I hit him back...with an ashtray. I ran but, I was in rough shape. I passed out in the door way here. Middle of January, I should have froze to death. It just happened that I landed here the night Jimmy forgot his wallet in the office. He came back for it, found me laying here, called 911. They're good guys. They wanted to help me find a second chance. Got me back on my feet, gave me a job here. And the rest is history.”

Steve watched her with a quite sort of amazement and she rolled her eyes.

“Man that got way too deep way to fast Cap. Geeze, turns out a pretty face IS all I need to get my mouth running,” she lamented and Steve laughed.

“well,” he said, raising his glass, “here's to the guys who gave us a shot.”

They spent the rest of the night in easy conversation, especially when one of the part time girls came into to run the bar. Gloria joined him over fries and they waxed over the disappointment of many a world series, before she snatched his notebook from his hands and jotted down a long list of movie titles that she insisted he had to see or they couldn't be friends. She had a fondness for floral, pink, and pit bulls, she loved her boyfriend despite his beard and his ill tempered cat, and she never seemed to get bored when Steve rambled on at length about how much the neighborhood had changed, how great and yet extremely dangerous to his productivity levels home television was turning out to be, how he loved his cell phone but hated typing on it(damned small buttons. A plight Gloria agreed and sympathized with), how much he loved the idea of online libraries and word processors, about how vinyl was still the superior music format in his humble opinion. She was easy to talk to in a way that Steve had almost forgotten. Like he was back in D.C., sitting in Sam's backyard with a beer in his hand. Like he was back in England, sitting around some table talking to Jim, or Gabe, about the lives they'd lived before they were commandos. Like he was back in the rat's nest apartment, curled up on the fire escape while Bucky blew smoke rings into the night air.

Night dragged on and customers pattered out early for the work day tomorrow, many stopping for a quick word or a shake of his hand, until it was just the two of them. Gloria sent her bartender home a few minutes early, telling her to make sure she studied got for her exams. The girl rolled her eyes with a half smile and a “thanks mom”, only after she'd asked Steve to sign a napkin for her (“My girlfriend is going to be so jealous!” she'd all but squealed.) Her cook asked for the same, shaking Steve's hand and hugging Gloria as he walked out.

“You sure you don't want me to wait around,” he'd asked.

“I'd be happy to walk you,” Steve offered with a smile. Gloria and the man exchanged glances.

She nodded and the man dropped a kiss on her cheek as he left.

“I should get going,” she sighed, reaching over the bar, fishing blindly for her purse, “The boyfriend's out of town for a meeting, and I still gotta feed that damn cat.”

Gloria flipped off lights while Steve helped out, putting stools and chairs up off the floor. They laughed together over some stupid joke as she locked the door behind them.

“So Cap, I hope I've convinced you to come back,” she asked, pulling her car keys out of her bag.

“10 for 10,” Steve nodded, “And thanks Gloria, for everything. I didn't realize how much I needed tonight.”

She gave a dramatic shrug, a flourish of her broad hands.

“What can I say, I know what the boys like,” she replied, “My car's just around the corner. Would you mind? The neighbor may have come up since your day but, still not the safest after dark.”

“Of course.”

He didn't notice the group of boys across the street, didn't look up until one of them yelled.

“Hey bro, you know that's a trap right?”

Gloria stiffened, spine straightening, fingers tightening on her bag. Steve stopped and looked up. The boys stopped too, laughing.

“Yeah man,” another called, “he's got a dick under that pretty blue dress. Just a fair warning.”

Steve didn't even have to look to see her shrinking away from him. She was scared, of the boys across the street, but also of him. Of Steve. Something dropped out of his stomach then, not pity, though there was some of that mixed in. But it was swallowed up by the cool burn of rage, a righteous sort of anger that built up inside of him like an atom bomb. 

Steve was across the street in half a dozen strides, and the first heckler was on the ground seconds later. The other's started at him, gapping, not sure of what to do. One moment there friend was on his feet, cackling, the next he'd had his face bashed into the concrete.

“You're him...”one of them began.

“Yeah, I am,” he growled, grabbing the second troublemaker and knocking his head against the hood of a parked car. He reached down, grabbing the two drooling youth's by the backs of their shirts.

“The rest of you going to follow or to I have to convince you too?” he asked, in the no nonsense tone that Sam had taken to calling his “Big Damn Hero” voice.

The other boys nodded, following Steve across the street. Gloria watched him with wide eyes, leaning against the brick and holding her purse like a shield, one hand tucked inside, probably on a weapon. Steve hoped she hadn't felt she'd need to use it on him, but he had the hard sinking feeling that she did. Steve dropped the boys at her feet, where they landed on their knees, kept up only by Steve's hand on their shirts. The other boys came forward sheepishly, not willing to test the older man's obviously thin patience.

“Now gentlemen, we're going to have a lesson in manners. Lesson one: This woman right here, she's a person. People have feelings. That means that when they walk down the street, they have the right to do so in peace, with out some morons making unwanted commentary on their bodies. This young lady doesn't belong to you. You don't get to tell her or anyone else who she is. She shouldn't have to suffer because you don't know how to be a decent damned human being. Is that clear? If someone tells you to refer to them a certain way, you will do it, because that is the decent thing to do. Understand?” there was a series of nervous nods “Now, you're going to apologize to this lovely young woman, with the utmost sincerity, from the bottom of your hearts, got it?”

“Sorry,” came a series of mumbled voices.

“I'm sorry,” Steve barked, “I couldn't quite hear you. What was it you were apologizing for?”

The replies came clearer now. But Gloria's eyes were glued to Steve still, wide and astonished.

“Now, the next time you feel the need to try and abuse someone, I want you to remember the little lesson we had tonight. Clear? Now get out of my sight,” he shoved the boys away with disgust, wobbly scrambling to their feet and out of sight. Steve turned back to Gloria, still pressed to the wall like she was trying to meld into it. He gave a small smile, raised his hands where she could see them, moved back a step. He'd picked up a lot of things from Sam.

“Gloria, are you okay?”

“What the hell was that?” she croaked after a long moment.

Steve shrugged a shoulder.

“I told you. I don't like bullies.”

“You beat up those boys...”

“...because they made you feel like being different was the same as being wrong. They did that, they said those things, hoping that they would get to stand by and watch me push you away. They wanted to seem me hurt you. There have always been people like them. And that's not okay Gloria, ever. They needed to be taught a lesson.”

She shook her head, fat tears smudging her eyeliner as they rolled down her cheeks.

“Jesus Rogers, you really are a true american hero, you know that,” she sighed, sagging a little, as the tension of fear left her, fingers finally loosing their grip on her purse. She hand a knife in her hand when she pulled it out of her bag. She noticed Steve's raised eyebrows. “I wish I could say they were the first shit heads I've come in contact with.”

“You were afraid of me too.”

She nodded.

“You lived in a different time Steve, and while you're a really nice guy, I've seen how quickly that niceness goes away. Being queer is one thing but, I didn't think you'd probably spent much time around trans women. People today still have a shit ton of bassakwards ideas. I didn't know what to expect from a 95 year old man,” she admitted.

Steve fished his handkerchief out of his pocket, passing it to her.

“That's not a system I have ever wanted to be apart of, and I learned a long time ago, that if you can do something and choose not to, you're not part of the solution.”

She took the handkerchief, watching Steve with something akin to affection.

“Captain fucking America indeed.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best family is the one you make for yourself.

Steve spent his free nights, which was most nights, at Lola's. The first evening, Gloria had looked at him with something akin to astonishment, before shaking her head and wiping him off a spot at the bar. There friendship fell into a steady rhythm after that. He'd decided Gloria and Natasha would get along swimmingly, given their penchant for trying to set him up, but Gloria got it pretty quickly that Steve wasn't looking for love. Still, she teased him endlessly every time she saw someone cheking out his ass or vice versa.

Their friendship started to bleed out of the bar and into the real world. When she and her boyfriend broke up, Steve was there to let her vent about all of his habits that she hated, when she cried because she was sure it was something she did wrong, how he'd chosen that fucking cat over her, there help her move out his crap. She got Steve the number for the local VA's volunteer coordinator, drug him along to LGBT youth center were she volunteered herself. She showed him the good hole in the wall places to eat, and Steve brought her books from the library, pointed out the things he remembered, from the way the city used to be. Then one day, he found them sitting in his apartment, with Casablanca on mute, and her telling about the first time she'd run away from home, the first boy she'd ever loved, the first time she'd realized that she wasn't gay but trans, the first time she'd gone out as a woman, the first time she'd shot up. The next thing Steve knew, his life with Bucky was pouring out of his mouth, about the things he'd felt but never said for fear of losing him, watching him fall from that train. He told her about his bastard father, how he'd decided that he'd never side by and watch someone get hurt, because being small wasn't an excuse for not stepping up, about his mother and how much it had hurt him to lose her, how lost he'd felt without her. He told her about Peggy, about how falling in love with her had been like learning to breath again, and how selfish he felt sometimes when the bitterness swelled up inside him at the beautiful life she'd had, a life without him. He told her about watching Peggy fade that last little bit, and how much he'd cried when they put her in the ground, mostly from relief because she wasn't hurting or sick any more, and he believed with all his heart that there was a heaven and Peggy was there now. He told her about losing Bucky a second time, about the nights he spent pouring over what little information he could get his hands on. Bucky was too good to let himself be seen. He left out the espionage, telling her only that, somehow, Bucky was like him, but he had been taken by some terrible people and put through something nightmarish. Still is felt like purging a wound.

Three nights later she dropped a manilla folder in his lap.

“Remember how I told you an old boyfriend of mine was a hacker? Well, he wasn't the only one,” she grinned, “I've still got friends. I called in some favors. Not sure it's your lover boy, but it's worth a shot.”

Gloria started helping him pour over the papers and emails, dropping by after she closed Lola's, with a growler and bag of fries, because some how Steve had been lucky enough to find wonderful human beings in this world. He watched her one night, eyes locked on a grainy image from a security camera in Boston, and he has a sudden image of her meeting Sam. It makes him smile.

But at the end of the day, the bar was her life, and while she shared her time with him, that was where her heart was.

~~~~~

There's a morning in the early fall, as Steve walked through his kitchen, towel around his waist and toothbrush in his mouth, that he found Natasha casually draped over his couch, watching cable. He nearly came unglued.

“How did you get in here!”

“I climbed,” she responded, eat another mouthful of cereal she'd helped herself to and not turning her gaze away from the Golden Girls.

“Why didn't you just come to the door?”

“Because the door was locked. The windows weren't”

Steve covered his face with his hands and went to get dressed.

Natasha talked about tracking down Barton, who had been in deep cover in Malaysia when Shield went black. She found him, filled him in, but he was like her in a lot of ways. Shield had been his life for a long time and he needed to get his head on straight. Steve had never been entirely clear on the nature of the two master assassins relationship, but Natasha wore an arrow around her neck when Clint wasn't around.

Steve took her to Lola's and Gloria gave him a playful wink at the sight of the red headed russian. Natasha looked Gloria in the eye and asked if she's single, before turning to Steve with that look that said “well what are you waiting for?”

“He's not my type sugar,” Gloria laughed, “I don't really date older men.”

“Oh har,” Steve shot back, with a roll of his eyes.

Natasha smiled, that closed lipped, half grin that Steve had grown to know and love.

Six beers later, they bully him into dancing, Natasha yanking his hand and Gloria offering no backup in the home front.

“I like her,” Natasha said, leaning into Steve's shoulder. It was different dancing with her, she was small, and fit perfectly into the curve of his shoulder. Sam was the one who'd taught him, who'd still kept that careful distance, because he knew that while they were both interested, neither of them was ready for that yet.

Steve sighed.

“She's a nice lady. She's really helped me get back on my feet around here,” He said, leaning into Natasha, trying to keep himself in the now, like Sam had taught him.

“That all,” Natasha teased.

“I'm not there yet, Nat, not for Gloria or Sam or anyone. She knows that.”

The russian sighed.

“It was worth a shot.”

There song ended and Steve went back to the bar for another beer. Natasha had stayed to dance with a lovely indian woman, leaving Steve to people watch again. The bar was crowded for a Thursday. There was a small groups of women sitting down the bar from him, one of them was wearing a birthday hat. One girl raised a glass to him down the bar and giggled, and he offered her a smile and a toast in return. A couple of men sat on their other side, learned close to each other in their seats. The talked quietly to one another, turning their attention else were only to ask for more drinks, and it made Steve smiles.

“Come one sweet heart, I'll buy you a drink.”

“I'm fine thanks.”

Steve glanced over his shoulder, to see a young woman in a flowered dress standing a few places down from him at the bar, spine straight and eyes forward. Steve frowned. The man next to her leaned in a fraction, causing her to scoot a step away.

“Come one sugar. Just one drink.”

“I said no thank you.

The guy pressed in again, standing to full height and Steve almost growled. He was a big guy, as almost as tall as Steve and just as wide, he dwarfed the woman and he knew it. He was scaring her and he was doing it on purpose. He was the kind of guy Steve had seen, and been beaten by, a million times, all braun, no brain and not an ounce of decency between.

“Don't be a bitch,” he said leaning in close, “I saw you checking me out with your little girlfriends.”

“Hey,” Steve called, “Lay off. The lady said she didn't want a drink.”

No brains sneered in Steve's direction, his eyes shot from the booze.

“Piss off fag.”

Steve was on hi feet in a heart beat, and heads around the bar turned to stare.

“Watch your language,” he retorted, voice cool, the sound of a man who gave orders and expected them to be obeyed.

He say the punch coming from a mile away, the way the kid clenched his fist to swing even before he stepped. Steve leaned away and No Brain's fist collided with the bar with a crunch and a howl. Steve caught his free arm, flailing as the young man tried to keep his balance, and brutally twisted it behind him. He may have been a little rougher than necessary when he hauled the kid up right. With a nod from Gloria, he drug no brains to the door and tossed him out onto the sidewalk.

He turned back to a bar of staring patrons and he felt that weird crawling nervousness that always came with being watched. The young woman, Annie she said was her name, offered to pay their tab. Steve declined the offer gentle.

“I was just doing the right thing.”

He spied Natasha on the dance floor, staring at him over her new partner's shoulder, smiling and shaking her head at him.

That night, when Steve handed her a couple of blankets (she refused to take the bed), she smiled at that same smile at Steve and he blushed.

“Gloria, she's good for you,” she said, “That place is good for you.

He returned the smile in kind.

“It's nice to have a friend who uses my front door.”

She punched him in the arm and plopped down on the cushions.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: there are mentions of suicide and forced outing of trans women in this chapter. Just a heads up.

Sam drove up from DC when he could, which wasn't as often as either he or Steve would have liked. The fall out of Shield and Sam's involvement made him a sudden person of interest. He talked about moving back to Harlem, where his parents still lived, even after Banner went Green on it. and Steve tried to keep the bubble of want from swelling in his chest. Having his best friend at least in the city would be a huge step from having in DC, which Steve still considered a danger zone. But he clung to his job at the VA for dear life, to the people who knew him, who tried to hold on to that last shred of normality. But he tells Steve he's being followed, not that it scares him, but mostly that he's annoyed by it. He's had offers from some private companies but he's turned them down. It sent a worm of worry burrowing in Steve's gut anyway. Steve knew the kinds of things that went on behind the closed office door, at least were the creation of war machines was concerned. Sam mentioned, almost in passing, that he'd gotten in contact with Maria Hill, now employed by Stark Industries and the tension in Steve's muscles eased a bit. Steve and Tony weren't what either of them would call friends but Steve had a lot of respect for Tony Stark, after Manhattan. He may have been an egotistical prick, but Tony Stark, somewhere under all the posturing and preening, was a good man who believe in doing the right thing. Steve had just as much respect, if not more, for Pepper Potts. Since Steve had known her, she had always been the kind of person who was kind and sweet with her friends, tough as nails when she needed to be, but always honest to the tee. If every company had a leader like Pepper, Steve was sure the world would be a much better place.

“Enough about my life, man, how have you been? Find some one else to run laps around I assume?”

Steve nodded, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

“Nah. Nobody's quite as much fun to beat as you,” Steve said with a sideways glance and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Why you have to be like that Roger's?” he teased, shoving at Steve's shoulder as he got up.

Steve sighed, watching Sam as he walked into the kitchen. There was still a part of him that liked Sam as more than a friend. Sam knew, the way Sam seemed to always know. They'd talked about it, in one of the run down motel rooms they'd crashed in, looking for Bucky. There was something there, between them, but neither one of them was ready for that. Sam was still mourning Riley in a lot of ways, Steve had lost Bucky twice now, and Peggy too.

“Maybe one day,” Sam had said, in the darkness between two broken down twin beds, “but not right now. I'm not ready for it, and neither are you.”

He took Sam to the bar that night, and he may have felt something in his heart break when he saw the way Sam looked at Gloria and he noticed the way Gloria looked at Sam, like they're seeing sunshine for the first time in a while. But after a moment, he smiled. He wasn't there yet, not when he still woke up in the middle of the night with the shakes, Bucky's name still hanging on his lips, not when he still thought of Peggy every night as he fell asleep. It was hard enough to mourn one loss, two was almost too much some days.

He wondered, watching them dance, after the bar had all but emptied, if he would see Bucky again. Not the Winter Soldier, or what was left of him, but Bucky, his Bucky. Times were different now, he was already out. He knew it was a pipe dream, of being able to freely love the friend he'd held close to his heart for so long. A man who might not even exist anymore. He knew it was idealistic, he knew it bordered on childish, but it didn't make him want it any less. Some days his skin itched, his bones ached, with the need to go searching again. He knew he wouldn't find anything, Bucky was too good now. Whatever else Hydra had done to him, they'd taught him how to be a ghost, leaving not so much as a breath or a whisper behind if he didn't want to. He was haunting now, and Steve knew that he wouldn't find his friend until the man wanted to be found. It didn't quell the need to try.

But Sam's presence was a welcome distraction. They walked the beach, they went to the movie in the park, to the art museum, the Empire State building. They visit Sam's parents in Harlem. Gloria took them to a dinner she knew well, where she says they serve the best chili dogs of their life. She's not wrong. They rode the roller coaster a Coney Island together, an experience Steve was not all that prepared for. It hurt at first, even though the place had changed so much, remembering the hot summer days he'd spent here with people who were no longing part of his life. Still, being there with Sam and with Gloria, it soothed the ache. Steve won her a giant stuffed bulldog in the ring toss, perks of being a super soldier, he says with a grin. Sam springs for snow cones before they drop her off at home and Sam is grinning like a lunatic behind the wheel of his car.

“Sam gave me his number,” Gloria told him, a few nights later. Her floor is covered in old files Natasha dug up and boxes of chinese takeout.

“He told me,” Steve said, smiling at her.

She let out a long breath, almost like relief.

“So you're okay with that? I know you two had..have.. something.”

Steve reached across the manila folded, fingers curling around her familiar hand.

“Gloria, Sam is an amazing guy. He's got a way of... making you feel like the world is manageable, like you can swim when you think your drowning. I love him, but right now, I don't think I have it in me to be more than friends with anyone. He knows that, we've talked about it. And it's not fair to him, or to you, to make him wait. So I think, you should call him,” he gave her fingers a squeeze, “ he's a great dancer.”

~~~~

In December, a friend of hers dies; put a gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger after a coworker outed her as trans. She answered the call while at the bar, slipped outside to take it, and Steve found her later, sitting in the snow around the corner of the building, phone cradled in her hands and tears frozen to her cheeks. She looked up at him like she was lost, like everything in the world was burning, and all Steve could do was sit in the snow next to her and pull her close. She screamed into his shoulder, and beat her fists against his chest, and he didn't patronize her and tell her it will be okay. He let her rave, because he remembered that feeling, that impotent rage that would tear your soul apart if you let it.

She didn't shed a tear at the funeral, not even when she shared her eulogy. But that night, sitting in the floor of her apartment, nearly empty bottle of merlot between her knees, she cried. She smiled on minute and swore the next, and Steve opened another bottle. Because he knew that drinking away your pain was a bad choice and a worse habit, but he remembered too that dark night in a bombed out bar in London, putting away bottles of liquor and smashing the rest when nothing happened, how much he would have given to be able to drink the pain away. Peggy had stayed with him that night, let him be sad, let him be angry, always seeming to know what to do in the moment, the way she always did. Part of him wondered how Sam would have handled it, what words he would have said to soother the bone deep ache of her grief. Another part of him wondered if Sam would have said anything at all. He hadn't been a counselor when he'd lost Riley, he was rough around the edges for a long time. So Steve let her drown her sadness, and her anger, and her helplessness in the bottom of a green glass bottle. It's a better option than heroin, she tells him, because she knows how to say no to booze in a way she always struggled to say no to smack.

He stayed with her, held her hair back out the toilet when she finally sobbed or drank herself sick, they aren't really sure.

“You're a good man, Steve,” she said to him, when he finally carried her to her bed, “I hope he finds soon. I hope this world doesn't take him away from you again.”

“Me too,” he said, tucking her in, “me too.”

~~~~

Spring in Brooklyn was cold and wet as he remembered. Still he was kind of fond of it. He never got out of the city when he was young, but the parks still bloomed, tiny oases in the middle of his concrete jungle. Fleabane and clover and ox-eye daisies, all his mother's favorites. Rain or shine, Steve made his morning runs in the park a ritual.

He was just dropping his wet hoodie over the kitchen chair when his phone rang. Brown eyed girl, Gloria's ring tone. He reaches for his phone with a grin.

“A little early for you, Ms. Mendez. I thought you said you didn't like to see the front side of nine am?” he teased.

“Hey Steve,” she answered and his heart dropped like a stone, “extenuating circumstances.”

“Gloria, what's wrong? Are you okay?”, he asked but his keys were already in his hand and he was heading for the door.

“Yeah. I'm fine just.... he's here. He's at Lola's.”

“Who? Joey? Because I told that son of a bitch if he came near you again, I would break his goddamn face and I wasn't bluffing...”

“No, Steve,” she huffed, her voice quieting to a whisper, “It's Bucky. He's here. At Lola's.”

His keys clattered in the linoleum.

~~~~

She was pacing the length of the bar, arms tucked tight around herself when he got there. He pushed the door and found it locked, brow furrowing when he saw how the noise startled her. She rushed to flip the lock, ushering him in hurriedly.

“I called you as soon as I could Steve,” she clamored and he settled his hands on her shoulders.

“Gloria breathe. Tell me exactly what happened.”

She ran her hands through her loose hair. She wasn't wearing makeup, he realized. He'd never seen her without it.

“Prima, who lives in the apartment upstairs, she called me this morning, said she thought she heard someone in the bar. I- I have some friends who, well lets just say they had a harder time holding on to the wagon. I let them crash in the back room when it's wet like this, I wanted to make sure it wasn't them before someone called the cops,” She sighed, “I know it's stupid and I almost called you, but I had pepper spray and I just wasn't thinking. So when I came in he was just sitting there at the bar. I didn't recognize him at first, but when he looked at me, he called me Peggy. Then, then he seemed to get really confused, and really scared. Stood up and started shouting at me, asking where you were.”

She shook her head.

“I told him I would call you and I did.”

Steve's heart felt like a rock in his chest. He'd know it wouldn't be pretty when he finally found Bucky, or Bucky found him, but now that it was happening, he wasn't sure he was prepared. His friend was fighting between to pasts, to lives, two selves. Steve didn't know which one was winning, or if there was enough of either left to salvage into one man.

“Where's he now?”

“Back kitchen,” she sighed, stepping out of the way,“I tried to get him to eat something, but he wouldn't. He's looks like he's in bad shape, Steve.”

Steve hoped the bar as easy as breathing.

“Hey cap,” she called and her glanced over his shoulder at her, “He didn't try to hurt me. I don't know if that means anything but....”

“Thanks,” he almost whispered, because some how, it did mean something. The Winter Soldier was like a bullet, shredding mercilessly through anything that stood between it at what it wanted. The Winter Soldier wouldn't have thought twice about snapping her neck. But Bucky, while he was a soldier, he wasn't a killer.

He pushed into the kitchen quietly, but not so much as to not be heard, just softly enough not to startle the man inside.

Bucky was curled up in the small space between the stove and the door to the walk in freezer, knees pulled up, head resting on his for arms. His clothes were different than when Steve last saw him, worn jeans, a faded sweat shirt, a tattered jacket. Steve didn't want to think about how he'd come by them. He looked up when the kitchen door swung open, but he didn't make any move to defend himself. Steve's heart felt like a rock as it dropped into his stomach. All Bucky's training should have been telling him to put his guard up, against this unknown intruder, a basic survival instinct that the serum had enhanced, that hydra had work and mutilated until it was at the very forefront of their creation. Bucky didn't even try.

Gloria was right, he looked like hell.

He was looking at Steve like a dying man, everything behind him, nothing before him. His eyes were nothing short of sunken, like he hadn't slept in days, weeks maybe. His cheeks were sallow, and while he'd shaved some time in the not to distant past, it didn't much help the shadows carving their way into his profile. His hair was still long and he look up at Steve through the dirty strands like it was his one last layer of protection.

“I stabbed you,” he said, in a voice that sounded like nails on gravel, like it had been used in a long while, “I stabbed you and I shot at you and I beat you.”

Steve took a few cautious steps, let himself go to his knees, like he was gentling an animal. Maybe he was, he wasn't sure.

“You saved me too,” he replied, a sad smile tugging at his lips, “You pulled me out of the water. You used my comm to call for backup, to get me help. You saved me Bucky, you fought against whatever hell they put you in, you broke their system, and you saved me. That's what matters.”

Bucky shook his head and Steve could see him shaking, eyes going wide, blown and panicked.

“Who is Bucky?” he pleaded.

Steve scooted closer.

“You are. You are James Buchanan Barnes. We grew up together in Brooklyn. Your dad was Irish catholic and your mom was a Romanian jew and they were always fighting about whether you were going to church or temple. You had this ratty ass old afghan you used to sleep with when I crashed on your sofa. You kept this horrible one eyed tabby cat for years, named him Rover cause you thought it was funny. You like to dance, you like jazz music, you like red lipstick on dark haired girls. You are my best friend,” Steve said, and he felt the tears hot and stinging like they hadn't in 70 years, “You've been through hell, Bucky. You've been through more than anyone human being can be asked to endure. Somehow, you fought it. Somehow you got out. It's going to take time to get your head straight but I'll be here. It's gonna be different, you're gonna be different. That's okay, because I'm with you til the end of the line.”

Bucky just nodded, slow, and bone tired.

“I want to sleep,” he muttered, head falling back onto his arms.

“I have an apartment you can sleep in, just a few blocks from here. You want to go there.”

He nodded again.

Steve stood, reaching for him and Bucky offered a hand. His metal hand. Steve took it without hesitation, hauling the other to his feet. Bucky's shoulders sagged with the weight of of memories he didn't yet have the capacity to untangle. He didn't let go of Steve's hand.

“Come on Buck,” he said gentle, like he'd said a thousand times a life time ago, “Lets get you home.”

 

 


End file.
